


Taken Apart

by NanashiJones



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Awesome Phil Coulson, Character Study, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Friendship is Magic, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Natasha Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 06:28:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3800299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NanashiJones/pseuds/NanashiJones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Congratulations! You have just bought the Black Widow exclusive figure! Put this toy together correctly and you can have a lifetime of use and enjoyment!"</p>
<p>She is no one.</p>
<p>She is just a toy. Made for no other reason than to be used by others. They call her Black Widow.</p>
<p>But someone named Hawkeye, from something called SHIELD, says she can be more.</p>
<p>How does a toy become a real person? The answer isn't easy, but Natasha Romanov will find out. Or die trying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taken Apart

_Congratulations! You have just bought the Natalia Alianovna exclusive figure! Put this toy together correctly and you can have a lifetime of use and enjoyment!_

* * *

They first took me apart, and put me back together, when I was eight.

I lived in an orphanage, in a place in Russia that hasn’t existed for a long time. I wore rags, kept quiet, and ate sufficiently terrible food. On the day I was first taken apart, I had just been washing my hands.

I remember it was mid-afternoon. I was washing up, and another girl came into the bathroom. I didn’t know much about her, aside from her large size and that she liked to hit the other girls when no one was looking.

When she came in, I focused carefully on what I was doing. I hoped she would ignore me.

She didn’t.

Instead, she slammed my head against the sink. I saw stars.

She grabbed my hair, and did it again. Harder.

I was hurt. Confused. I didn’t know what to do. She slammed my head against the basin a third time, and I realized she would kill me.

I came apart.

She yanked me back for one more blow, to finish the job. I didn’t want to die.

I grabbed her arms. I didn’t have any skill, but I was fierce and angry. In my anger, I was put back together.

Desperate, I dragged my nails down her skin, drawing blood. She yelped. She was young- she didn’t know how to ignore pain.

I didn’t either, but by then I wasn’t simply me any more. I was a feral creature, something wild and dangerous, like a dark fairy tale monster brought to life. For that creature, pain was part of survival. It meant I was still kicking.

Which I did. I kicked, hard, and she let go of me.

I dropped free, but I didn’t stay down. I planted my feet and shoved myself backward. Slamming into her, I knocked her over.

I could have walked away at that point. Growled at her and stalked off to lick my wounds. But I had just been washing my hands. There was something in how she had just… beaten me. Beaten me for no reason, other than that she could, which pissed the feral me right off. So, I didn’t slink away. Instead, I beat her face in.

My fists were a blur. She tried to get her hands up, but I kneeled on her arms. She kicked with her legs, but she didn’t kick as well as I did.

Once her face was a pulp, I grabbed her hair. Dragging her upright, I slammed her head into the sink, the way she had slammed mine. I did it once. Twice.

I did it again, and again, until the girl stopped moving.

Panting in the cool air of the bathroom, I felt the feral creature fade. But I didn’t feel like the same me I had been earlier. Blinking sweat from my eyes, I turned slightly. I could see the rest of the city out of a smudged window. Inexplicably, I felt very far from it.

While I stood over the body, I realized I wasn’t alone in the bathroom. Someone was standing in the doorway. A man. He looked official.

“Do you know what you have done?” he said. He didn’t sound excited, nor angry. Just curious. He could easily see I was covered in the blood of the girl I had just killed.

“I do,” I said. I hadn’t figured out how to lie with my finger still on the trigger, yet.

He smiled, then he nodded. “Come with me.”

I never knew that girl’s name.

* * *

_Now your Natalita is the Black Widow! She comes with kung-fu grip and real shooting action! Spin her around! Watch her kick some butt!_

* * *

The man, and the others like him, weren’t interested in who I was. They were interested in what I could do for them.

They liked the feral creature I came up with, but she was too simple. So they added to her, adjusted her. This was my first lesson: I had interchangeable functions.

I could be feral and quiet. I could be meek and deadly. I could hold all manner of contradictions as long as I had the willpower. And I had plenty of it. Willpower helped me survive the Red Room.

I don’t really remember much about the Room. There were some other girls. Ballet classes, mathematics, lots of sweaty, sweaty nights. And I watched a lot of American films. Classic Disney weirds me out, now, like you wouldn’t believe.

Then, I was a newborn blinking into the light, and the men who had first brought me there came to take me away with them. They put me in pink and pigtails, gave me orders, and left me at the door of my first sanctioned kill.

He was a fat, ugly thing. To this day, I remember what he smelled like.

My orders were simple: get close and kill him, by whatever means possible. I chose to bloody his nose and strangle him with a pillowcase. When they picked me up, I was told that I had done a good job. But, I could have saved myself effort if I had let him touch me.

I shrugged. At the time I killed him, I had been a little girl who didn’t want the ugly man to touch her, and a feral creature deadly to anything in her way. Another time, maybe I would be a little girl who secretly wanted to be touched. But still the feral creature. And always the survivor. I liked those roles the best.

* * *

_Be careful with your Black Widow figure! Too much hard play can wear the connectors down and make it malfunction!_

* * *

For a long time, my life was just getting disassembled, receiving orders, being reassembled, and death.

I was a call girl one evening, then a secretary another. A distressed wife barging into the police station in the morning, and a lost university girl on the wrong side of town at night. I was good at looking vulnerable, open. Easy.

Not that I actually was ever vulnerable, or open, or easy. I was a doll, a toy that others took apart and adapted as they saw fit. And I was very good at what I did. I lied with every breath I took. I made polygraphs weep.

I was too busy to be aware I was unhappy. I was just a toy killer after all. Dolls don’t feel. They wait until they’re taken out of their box and put to use. Dolls aren’t real. The only way a doll becomes real is when someone talks to them. Like Hawkeye talked to me.

“Nice job.”

I pointed my gun at him, absorbing his vitals in a blink. He was seven inches taller with fifteen pounds of muscle on me. Dirty blond hair cut short, nose that’s been broken too much. He also had his hands up.

“Hey, peace,” he said, smiling open and friendly. “Just talking here.”

“Who are you?” I demanded, keeping my gun trained on him.

He didn’t seem surprised that I understood him, and spoke English. But I hadn’t appeared surprised when he’d snuck up on me. So far, we were on even footing.

“I’m Hawkeye,” he replied. “Are you her?”

“Her who?” I asked.

“Black Widow.”

I’d heard the name before. A joke among the men who took me apart. I’d had so many names over the years, calling me Black Widow became the only way the men could be sure they were all talking about the same doll.

I laughed at him, the noise sharp. “What makes you think I’m her?”

“Dead guy in there, who clearly didn’t see it coming.” He jerked his chin toward the doorway.

I was no fool. I didn’t look back at my kill. I just remained focused on Hawkeye.

“Would you like to join him?” I asked, smirking.

“Not particularly,” he replied. “Can you… put the gun down? I’m not a cop, or whatever they’ve got here. I just want to talk.”

I chanced a look at the clock behind him. A very brief look. I was ahead of schedule. I had… free time. I was also curious.

I stepped back, well out of his reach. As an act of good faith, I lowered my weapon. I still kept my eyes on him.

Hawkeye smiled. It was a nice smile. My heartbreaker smile was good, but his was on a whole other level. That may have been the first time I ever saw an honest smile.

He lowered his hands slowly, then shook them out. I raised an eyebrow, impressed. He’d pretty much said: I have no weapons hidden up my sleeves. Keeping his hands in my line of sight, he leaned against one wall of the narrow hallway.

“Comfortable?” I said.

“Eh. I could use a drink, but I’m on the clock,” he said, shrugging.

We watched each other. His eyes drifted over me, but not in the usual, lazy desire I was used to. It was like he was looking for something specific. I didn’t like how searching his gaze felt. I wasn’t used to being seen as me.

“So, talk,” I said, breaking his focus.

He smiled again. “You like what you do?” he asked.

“Pardon?” I said.

“Do _you_ …” He pointed at me. “Like.” He smiled exaggeratedly. “Your. Job?” He pointed out the window with his finger, and mimed shooting a gun.

I squinted at him. He was being absolutely ridiculous.

But… I considered his question seriously.

No one had ever asked me that before. It hadn’t been pertinent. Plenty of people had asked Natalia, or Gemma, or Sparkle if they liked their jobs. No one had asked _me_. It made my heart clench.

I brought my weapon back up and sighted on him.

“I’m good at my job,” I said, voice firm.

“Not what I asked,” Hawkeye replied.

I sighed, rolling my eyes. “Go away, little man,” I said, turning to leave. “You are a child.”

“Okay. Catch you around!” he called to my back, as I slid down the stairs and out of sight.

* * *

_Regular care and maintenance of Black Widow is a must! You never know what could happen if you don’t care for your toys!_

* * *

I executed two more jobs, content to ignore the little knot in my chest. Hawkeye showed up at the third. He had coffee and doughnuts.

“You are going to blow my cover,” I hissed.

“No I’m not,” he casually replied. “I’m your gay roommate.”

He had certainly dressed the part. A tight shirt showed off the muscles in his arms, and even the mob wouldn’t wear pants that flashy.

“Coffee?” he offered.

I took the beverage. Coffee _did_ complete my image. This time, I was a put-upon post-grad student, trying to please her professor with her thesis.

In one week, I would ask for help with my research. It would be at night. We’d be _all_ alone. The professor would die from the chemicals in our drinks before we even kissed. It would be ruled an unfortunate heart attack. His wife would be heartbroken.

“Alena?” Professor Polzin said, coming up the hall behind me. “Who is this?”

“My roommate, Alexey,” I replied, smiling breezily.

“Hey there,” “Alexey” purred. “So you’re the big professor. I can see why she works late.”

I growled and slapped his arm. Beneath the act, I was impressed. His Russian was _very_ good. He was smarter than he looked.

Polzin failed to hide his blush. He had been good-looking once, and now, in his twilight years, he wanted to feel attractive again. Of course he wanted my affections. But the appreciation of a stranger, even if he was male, was good for his ego too.

“Yes, well...” Polzin said, trying to play off the obvious flirtation. “A pleasure to meet you, too. I must go, Alena. But if you need anything else…?”

“I’m fine,” I said, flashing a grateful smile at him. “I’ll see you tomorrow, professor.”

He nodded to us, and walked away.

When he was out of earshot, Hawkeye said in English, “So how dead is he?”

I rolled my eyes and stalked away, across campus. I tossed the barely touched coffee into a garbage bin.

“Scale of one to ten?” Hawkeye asked, jogging up.

“If you don’t leave me alone, I _will_ kill you.”

“No, you won’t,” he said.

“Oh? You’re confident you know me so well?”

He ate some of his doughnut, and offered me the bag. I waved him off.

When he finished, he licked powdered sugar off his fingers and said, “Because you don’t want to do it.”

“I don’t,” I repeated, flatly.

“Nope,” he replied.

“And why do you say that?” I asked, cocking my head.

“Because I have known a _lot_ of killers in my life and, lady, you aren’t one.”

My stride stuttered. “Clearly you don’t know me,” I said, schooling my features to a blank mask.

“Hey, I didn’t say you didn’t kill,” Hawkeye said, turning around and walking backwards. “I just said you weren’t a killer. Big difference.”

“The grieving families in my wake would disagree,” I said.

He shrugged. “Nobody starts out a saint.”

“And I’m definitely not one,” I snapped. “So quit pretending I’m on the side of the angels.”

He stopped. So did I.

“Wanna be?” he said, smiling his charming smile.

I leveled my gaze at him. He sipped his coffee.

“I’m serious,” he said. “Less murder. You get to be your own person. Probably some shady shit, because, hey, you’re kind of good at that. But, it would be on your terms. You can say no and they’re not going to beat you with socks full of oranges. Or batteries. Or whatever,” he added.

I raised an eyebrow at him. I couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not.

“Here’s my card,” he said, giving me the bag of doughnuts. Then, in loud Russian: “Catch you at home, Alena!” He kissed me chastely on the cheek, then strutted off like a peacock on display.

I opened the bag. There was a card inside. On one side was a stylized eagle insignia, and one word: S.H.I.E.L.D.

* * *

_Getting an authentic Black Widow trade-in is very rare. Be sure to examine your Black Widow figure carefully if you’re not getting it from a reputable retailer!_

* * *

I spotted the tail a week later. It wasn’t hard. They were good, but they weren’t good enough.

I side-stepped into an alleyway to shake them, and Hawkeye wrapped his arms around my neck.

“Don’t move,” he hissed.

I didn’t. But I was keenly aware of where his throat and instep were. I noticed that he wasn’t putting any real pressure on my throat. Yet.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you,” I told him.

“Because, I’m the only shot you have of getting out of here alive.”

I snorted.

“Hey, look,” he said, voice low and fast. “I’ve kept them off your back as long as I could, but the higher ups want your head on a platter.”

“This is nothing new,” I said. I shifted my weight, preparing to break out of his grasp. I even telegraphed the move, but, he didn’t bother to adjust. “I’ve been evading S.H.I.E.L.D. for a long time. I can continue to do so at my leisure.”

“Not like this you can’t,” he said, his tone desperate. “Not when they really set their minds to it. I know.”

I spun in his grasp and slammed him against the wall, my knife at his throat.

“And do you think I trust that?” I growled. “This is a setup. An obvious one. You gave me the soft sell, then comes the hard. I am _loyal,_ Hawkeye.”

He smiled at me. “You really aren’t.”

“I’m a killer.”

“So kill me.”

And then he relaxed against the wall. He didn’t try to push my knife from his throat, didn’t make a break for it. He simply leaned against the wall, as if we weren’t engaged in a life or death encounter.

I shifted my stance.

“Can you make it quick?” he asked, as if inquiring about the weather. “And not _too_ ugly? I kind of want an open casket if they can get my body back home.”

I stared at him and met his gaze for the first time. His eyes held no deception. Only humor. And belief.

I pulled the knife back fast. I felt as if I’d been burned by his look.

“You’re a fool,” I hissed, and ran down the alley.

I ran for a week. Then, a contact told me that my masters _had_ sold me to S.H.I.E.L.D. While I had professed my loyalty, _they_ dropped me. Because at nineteen, I was old, used up, and a liability. I had done all they had asked, and now they were casting me aside. Presumably for a shinier, newer model.

I was more than a little unhappy about it. I vented some of that on the contact, but I like to think I was still the bigger man about it. I didn’t _shoot_ the messenger. He made it to a hospital. I heard he even got facial reconstructive surgery.

Hawkeye was right. S.H.I.E.L.D. _was_ closing in. And without support, I could no longer stay where I was.

But, I couldn’t let such a slight go unpunished. I had to keep them from lining up another doll to be used and then dropped at theirleisure.

Armed with my fury and my knowledge, I killed them. I killed them all. It didn’t take nearly as long as I thought it would. And once the last body was cooling, I severed ties to my home country, and disappeared. I left a message on that last body:

“Hawkeye - follow me at your own peril. - BW”

* * *

_There’s only one Black Widow, kids! Be sure you treat her well!_

* * *

Freelance was… an education.

I looked out at the sea of filing clerks, managers, average, everyday people and I realized that for all I could _do_ their jobs, I would go mad if that were all I did. I didn’t like being a doll, but I still had all the skills that doll had been given. I would just use them like Hawkeye had said- at my own discretion.

My first job was _very_ small, a pittance in terms of my usual pay. But they only had my word that I was who I claimed, so I had to take it. Of course, I got it done.

That opened a few doors for me, which lead me to the next job, and the job after that. And the job after that. It was exactly what I had done before. Pull myself apart, and put together the needed pieces. Only now, _I_ was in control. And there was something absolutely glorious about that.

I wasn’t _their_ doll, I was my own. Through the blood and the lies, I found a little nugget of satisfaction.

Satisfaction, however, is not happiness. What I did was no challenge, and brought me nothing aside from a large paycheck. For all that I was thriving in my “trade,” I felt incredibly stagnant. Tired. Why was I still doing this?

“Because you are a doll for hire,” I told my reflection in the mirror of my latest safe house. “You deceive and you kill like the tool you are. It’s what you do.”

When I had started, that mantra sounded pure and strong. Now, it wasn’t so convincing.

Fortunately, unlike the normal work, my career was exceedingly lucrative. I could afford a personal sabbatical. I was a doll in charge of herself- if I was bored of my job, I would just take a vacation.

I went full dark. Moving to the Bahamas, I lived like a reclusive and eccentric millionaire. I wore large sunglasses. I read romance novels. I drank tasteless beer.

I was drinking that beer when I met Phil Coulson.

“Mind if I buy you the next round?”

I looked up from my book, pretending I hadn’t been aware of him from at least 50 feet away. He was in khaki shorts, ugly sandals, and a ridiculous patterned shirt. He looked completely inoffensive: another awkward, American tourist. I hadn’t seen anyone else pull off non-threatening as well as me in a long time.

It piqued my curiosity. “You may,” I said, dog-earing the corner of my Nora Roberts. “If you tell Hawkeye I say hello.”

The man smiled, and it was genuine. “I’ll do that. May I?” He gestured to the chair next to mine.

I shrugged.

He sat, waving for two beers.

“They’re not very good,” I said, finishing off the one in my hand.

“I didn’t really think they would be,” he said. He smiled at the waiter as two bottles were set down. He took his and sipped. “And that’s confirmed. Uck. How do you keep drinking this?”

I shrugged. “It’s this or that thing with the umbrellas in it, which is full of sugar.”

He nodded. “I hear you. I’m Phil by the way. Phil Coulson.” He offered his hand.

I didn’t return the gesture. “I know. You’re with S.H.I.E.L.D,” I said, sipping my beer.

“And you’re Black Widow,” he said, retrieving his hand.

“Call me Natasha,” I said.

“Natasha. Okay,” he said. He didn’t miss a beat. “Well, Natasha, do you know why I’m here?”

“You’re here to bring me in,” I said, smirking.

He spread his hands, and shrugged. “I am. But, I’ve been reading your file. And talking to Agent Barton.”

I tilted my head in question.

“Hawkeye,” Phil said. “His name is Clint Barton.”

I laughed softly. We knew each other more by our codenames, our infamy, than given names, like Phil.

“He speaks very highly of you,” Phil continued. “He’s also been under review for letting you get away three times since you went freelance.”

I rested my head in my hand. “I think he has a crush,” I commented.

“So do some of the heads at S.H.I.E.L.D,” Phil replied. “You know what I think?”

I raised my eyebrows.

“I think he sees something in you. I think he thinks you’re not a bad person. And, I think I agree with him.”

“Hm,” I said, sipping my beer. “That’s a lot of thinking, Phil.”

“It is. So, here’s the offer I’m thinking of. You come in, you work with us, you work with S.H.I.E.L.D, and we don’t throw you in an old style Russian Gulag.” He sipped his beer. “Which wouldn’t be fun, as I imagine it’s where all the people you’ve left in your wake are hanging around. Well, the ones that are still alive, anyway.”

I took another sip of my beer. “This is your offer?” I said.

“It’s S.H.I.E.L.D.’s offer,” he said, smirking. “Though the Russian Gulag bit was special, from our director.”

“He has a flair for the dramatic,” I said.

“He’s a very determined man. And he’s not afraid to make threats and live up to them,” Phil replied.

I tilted my beer back and forth. I knew I was surrounded. While we’d been talking, a team had moved into position, closing off all egress routes. I let them. I still had a way out, after all. A special surprise, so to speak.

“Do _you_ make threats?” I asked Phil.

“If the job needs it. But it’s not my usual style,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Sorry I had to go all... _grrr_ like that.” He smiled, sheepishly.

I laughed. “You’re a funny guy, Phil,” I said.

“Thanks. So? Are you in or out?”

I waggled my beer back and forth again. I was wearing a bikini top, a sari skirt, and flip flops: an easy catch for S.H.I.E.L.D. Their new toy.

“Why do you agree with Hawkeye? Barton?” I asked.

Phil considered. When he spoke, it was deliberate, and thoroughly genuine. “Because killers…” he said, slowly. “True killers, who give me the serious creeps, don’t take months off to drink crappy beer and read romance novels. They don’t teach local girls how to dance in their free time.”

I stopped fiddling with my beer. It leaned precipitously toward Phil.

“They don’t spend their free time fixing motorcycles for the family down the road so they have reliable transportation to town. True killers aren’t good people,” Phil finished. “You’re good people. We’ve been watching you for months, and I’m certain that your activities, here, have bored our top psychologists to sleep.”

I tipped the beer back, setting it next to my book.

“Would I work with Hawkeye?” I said.

“We’ll see.”

“Would I work with you?”

“I’d like you to.”

When I was sold out, I was considered old, used up, and a liability. When I was free, I found I was young, intelligent, and willful. Very, very willful.

“Then, consider this my resume. I’ll see you around, Phil.”

I slammed the beer into the table. The bottle broke, and liquid splashed everywhere. Much of it sloshed over my book and bookmark, which I had treated with a chemical that reacts very interestingly to the bad beer.

Smoke erupted from the table, immediately concealing me from all lines of sight. Men and women rushed in, shouting. I slipped between them all. I only knocked out two as I left. As a courtesy, I propped them up in chairs. Waking up on the ground _is_ pretty uncomfortable. All that grit in your face...

I was cozily hidden away when Phil gave the order to stand down. Hawkeye- Clint Barton strolled up. He was wearing  only cut-off shorts and shades. I had to stifle a laugh at his “surfer dude” image- he did it too well.

“I told you she was good,” Clint said, smiling.

Phil was examining the soggy mess of glass and romance novel on the table.

“I didn’t doubt you.  But still, this happened,” Phil said, shaking his head. “Damn.”

“Aaaaand, over there’s Ramirez and Jones. Aw, they look so cute like that,” Clint said, noting the two agents I’d propped up, leaning against each other.

Other agents were sweeping the area for any trace of me. I settled myself comfortably. I’d have to go back to my place and get my go-bag. But I wanted to be certain…

“Her resume,” Phil said, realization dawning on his face. “She said, ‘her resume.’”

“Damn impressive resume,” Clint said. “She escaped a full-court press, left no casualties, all the while looking like little Janey tourist.” He shook his head. “ _I_ only put an arrow through Fury’s phone.”

Phil nodded. He turned to Clint. “When do you think we should expect her?”

“Give her a week,” Clint said. “She’s cautious. She’ll approach on her terms, control the situation, even if it looks like you have the upper hand. And man, did we ever have the upper hand here. You give her that week, and she’ll trust you.”

Phil’s nod became more determined, emphatic. “I want that trust. Can you imagine what she could do for us?”

Something cold twisted inside me at the implication. Then, Phil surprised me.

“Hell, can you imagine what we could do for _her?_ ”

“... _Her_ , Phil?” Clint asked.

“Yes, her, Clint. All of this? This is paranoia,” he said, sweeping his hands around. “This is paranoia, and abuse, and hurt. And she was amazing like this. Imagine… Imagine if we give her something _good_.” His eyes lit up, and he grinned. “Imagine if we give her something right, something _honest_. What we saw today was survival instinct from someone trained, but cornered, and entirely on her own. Imagine who she could be if we give her support, and people she can trust.”

Clint blinked at Phil. He laughed.

“Oh, please,” Phil said.

“Sorry, no. It’s just- wow. You sound like Director Carter did in all those entry videos. I couldn’t-”

“Thank you, Agent Barton,” Phil said, briskly. “Let’s go. I want to make sure she can find her way back to S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ.”

“Sir, yes sir,” Clint said, throwing a mock salute. But he loitered around until Phil was gone. He didn’t look in my direction, but he stood close enough.

“He’s cheesy, but I agree with him,” he said, like he was talking to himself. “You don’t have to be the way you are. And you don’t have to be alone.” He glanced around one last time and then thrust his hands into the pockets of his board shorts and strolled away.

They had truly left. So did I. I had a lot to think about.

* * *

_The Black Widow is no longer on the market._

* * *

I waited two weeks, just to prove my point. Then, I walked into the secure S.H.I.E.L.D. facility in Washington D.C. I walked past guards, and attentive secretaries with guns under their desks, to sit down across from Phil Coulson. He had been talking to Clint Barton. I tossed a piece of paper on his desk. A formal resume.

“Agent Coulson,” I said in my best American English, smiling. “I have some red in my ledger. I’m told you’re the man who can help me with that.”

Phil smiled back at me, and picked up the page. Clint couldn’t hide his own smile if he tried. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. He gave me a surreptitious thumbs-up.

Phil glanced at the name at the top of my resume.

“Miss… Natasha Romanov,” he said, like he was meeting me for the first time. “You’ve been told right. How can we help each other?”

* * *

_The Black Widow line is discontinued entirely. Only one known figure exists, and it is not a toy._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as always to my eternal editor, Tempest, for keeping me in line and being the one to point out that I made Natasha too much of a robot in the early drafts. You always bring the best and best story out of me, love. Thanks.
> 
> Other thanks goes to Greg Rucka, because until MCU tells me otherwise, Elena and Natasha are AUs of each other. And both need a hug. Often.
> 
> Thanks to you, the reader. This is probably the most personal thing I've written, for all that it is about a badass lady assassin in a world with a giant green rage monster, gods, and Phil Coulson. "Taken Apart" started out as therapy for some personal events in my life- Natasha and I sharing a metaphorical beer and screaming at a laptop for sixteen pages. Then, with the help of my ever-patient editor, it became a readable story. And you read it. Which is very cool of you. So, thanks.
> 
> And last, I still want a Black Widow movie. Because, don't we all?


End file.
